"Have you any literary qualities, Dr. Phillimore?" he asked me, quite unexpectedly.
I hesitated. "If so, they are quite undeveloped," I replied. "I have no reason to suppose so."
"Ah!" he sighed, and taking a volume which lay on the table he opened it. "Do you know German?"
I told him that I could read the language. He nodded.
"It has never been properly appreciated," he said slowly; "the German literature is wonderful—ah, wonderful!" and he appeared to meditate over his page; then he set the book down and looked across at me.
"You are married, doctor? Ah, no!" He nodded again, and once more resumed his meditations. I might have taken it for granted that I was free to go, but for some reason I lingered. He frowned deeply, and sighed again.
"There is a passage in Schiller, but you would not know it——"
He gave me no chance of saying, and I answered nothing; only sat and stared at him.
"There is more music in Germany's little finger than in all the world else—in composition, I mean," he added.
"That has always been my opinion," I ventured at last.